


Feel Your Taste

by ignited



Category: CW Network RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Food Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-05
Updated: 2007-09-05
Packaged: 2017-11-03 19:12:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignited/pseuds/ignited
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen stages an intervention. A healthy one. Jared’s not exactly sure how <i>this</i> qualifies, but he’s not going to complain either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feel Your Taste

**Author's Note:**

> Based off a prompt given by [](http://regala-electra.livejournal.com/profile)[**regala_electra**](http://regala-electra.livejournal.com/). For you, darling. Many thanks to [](http://arabella-hope.livejournal.com/profile)[**arabella_hope**](http://arabella-hope.livejournal.com/) for the beta! Title from The Beatles “Savoy Truffle.”

Jared decides he kind of hates Jensen Ackles.

And it’s not like he, you know, thinks of Jensen on a _full name_ basis, but in his head now, it’s like bright, bold, neon lettering, because Jared’s just come into his trailer, hair a bird’s nest, t-shirt inside out, carrying a bag of coffee, donuts, and um, that’s not the fucking point. The fucking _point_ is: looking at the sight before him? Jared hates Jensen Ackles.

Jensen, who’s also just woken up like, a half-hour before, hair flat and mussed, glasses on the tip of his nose, laid out on the couch in nothing but boxers, like he’s spontaneously tanning in Jared’s trailer. Doesn’t matter that he’s just woken up, didn’t even bother with putting contacts in, he’s got this natural, ‘I make this shit look _good_ ’ kind of vibe going for him that Jared, you know, hates, especially when he’s just as bedraggled and definitely not at Jensen’s level of up and at ‘em good looks in the morning.

“Dude, are those, uh, are those pineapple slices?”

Jensen stares at him, chin tucked against his neck before he stretches back, shows the column of his throat, eyes closed. Slices, circles of yellow, are laid out along Jensen’s chest, belly, a trail of fruit. He pushes his glasses back up and wriggles, grumbles roughly, “Shut up and go at it.”

Jared just stands there, because who the fuck _does_ things like that? Freaking _pineapples_ , the fuck—

“Look, man, think of this as an intervention.”

“Uh.” Jared nods, feels his neck and shoulders and uh, _other_ parts go stiff. “Uh huh.”

Jensen sighs, reaches up to wipe at his forehead, pushes his short hair back up, less mussed. “What’ve you got there? A donut? A bag of them?”

“Are you saying something about my eating habits, Jensen?”

“Dude, don’t come crying to me when you’ve got another sex scene,” Jensen says, opens his mouth to say more but Jared’s not gonna listen, puts the bag down. Moves forward towards the couch and slings a leg around, adjusts and straddles Jensen.

“You fuck,” Jared says, leans over, Jensen arching up—but Jared holds up a finger, reaches back and behind Jensen, fumbles with the pile of crap on his side table—remotes, TV Guide, magazines, whatever, where—his arm hovers, then darts down, right between the cushions of the armrest and couch, near Jensen’s head. Digs in, and after a few seconds, Jared pulls out a jar of chocolate sauce.

“Dude. You’re shitting me. You keep—you’ve got chocolate sauce in your trailer. In your _couch_.”

Jared leans back, scrunches his nose, untwists the lid and dips in two fingers, chocolate coating them like lube. And what the _fuck_ , but like, okay, so he _does_ have chocolate sauce, it’s for a real good reason—

“Don’t say ‘shitting’, man, you’ll ruin the fucking moment,” Jared says, moves back, and slips a hand down the length of Jensen’s belly, leaves a trail of chocolate in messy swirls over the ridges of muscle. He works his way kissing down from Jensen’s temple, neck, shoulders, chest. His hand starts to push down Jensen’s boxers, breathes out, between kisses, “It’s my backup plan.”

“You stick chocolate sauce up my ass and I’ll punch you,” Jensen says with a groan, just as Jared wraps a hand around the base of his cock, starts pumping, slow. He’s arching though, hips buck up, into Jared’s hand, just as Jared’s licking a swirl around Jensen’s left nipple, bites and swallows a pineapple slice, sweat, saliva.

Starts licking, kissing down Jensen’s belly, these noises that he doesn’t _care_ if they’re messy, sloppy, it’s Jensen’s fault. Jensen, who flinches at every bite of pineapple slice that Jared takes, nicks the skin a little, kisses rough, red. Licks up the juice, lets it swirl runny next to chocolate, sweet, Jensen’s _skin_ , salty, the different flavors almost too much.

“Like ice cream or peanut butter. It’s my emergency stash,” Jared explains, or tries to, it’s kinda fucking hard at the moment, Jensen twining his fingers through Jared’s hair, holds on, brings him _down_.

“When you’re not around…” And he doesn’t mean for this to slip out, talking nonsense, inwardly groans, does too, _outward_ , Jensen grinning against his forehead, like he’s picturing Jared sitting around eating right out of a jar of chocolate sauce like some chick with ice cream and a weepy movie.

Uh. He totally doesn’t _do_ that, nope—

Jensen’s biting his lip, glasses just about to fall off when his head jerks back and he comes all over Jared’s fist, barely able to suck in a breath when Jared kisses him right after.

A moment, or two, Jared gives him that much, takes control of the thing, wiping off slices and chocolate running sticky on the floral pattern of his couch. He barely gets the chance to give some comment, say _anything_ , feels flushed, wet, sticky when Jensen’s grabbing his jaw and tilting his head up, pulling his body up, as if to say _my turn_.

Jared’s slipping, moving, _angling_ himself, so he’s sitting up and Jensen’s between his legs, hair sticks up this way and that, streaks of chocolate smeared down his front. He’s tugging Jared’s pants and boxers down and off, little grunt escaping his lips, tip of his tongue at the corner of his mouth, stuck out in determination.

Jared doesn’t hate him any more when Jensen starts to fist Jared’s cock long and slow, and he doesn’t say a word, just looks up through the glasses and _grins_.

His mouth is right near Jared’s cock, almost, _almost_. When he blows a little whuff of air against the head, Jared damn near _shivers_. The chocolate sauce jar’s open, just about ready to tip over when Jensen grabs it, sticks his fingers in and—fuck. Gives a little swirl of sticky fingers around the base and length of Jared’s cock.

Doesn’t hate him when he’s swallowing his cock, and Jared makes these little _noises_ that Jensen’ll call him on, oh, he’s got plenty of fucking ammo for days to come. He shakes his head to move the hair out of his eyes; the tips of his bangs are covered in chocolate and god knows what else—pineapples, yeah, _uh_.

Swirl of tongue, Jensen hollowing his cheeks and fisting Jared, still, licks the vein along the underside of Jared’s cock. Thing is, there’s chocolate, and it’s sticky, coating Jared’s cock and it’s too fucking ridiculous, the way Jensen’s lips are full, _red_ , wrapped around his cock and teasing him, does this all long and slow, licking up Jared like he’s missed a spot. Deep throats, too, and Jared can’t—he can’t—

And then Jensen switches up, goes _faster_ , barely gets to do it for a few seconds before Jared loses it, comes right into Jensen’s mouth. His body goes all slack, hands fumbling, exhales, a slip of a groan escaping.

There’s chocolate at the corner of Jensen’s mouth; Jensen rubs it away with a thumb and says, “Mmm. Much better.”

Jared’s head lolls back on the couch before he raises it, peering down at Jensen. “Food, man. _Food_.”

Jensen shrugs. Jared’s too fucked out to hate him by this point. “Well, I wanted to eat something sweet. And healthy.”

“Oh my god. The pineapples,” Jared says, or tries, it’s kind of hard when he realizes he can’t, you know, _move_ much, and a pillow sticks under his left side. He pulls it out and away just as Jensen starts to get up, pulling his glasses off and putting them on the couch.

Jared sticks a pointer finger in Jensen’s direction, looks up, up, over the smears of chocolate running down Jensen’s chest and belly. “You’re a sick man, Jen. That must be why we’re still screwing around.”

He rolls his eyes in response. “Yeah, that must be it.”

Jensen staggers a little, eyes half-lidded, lets Jared wrap his hands around the angles of his hips, his waist. He pulls Jensen down onto his lap, lets him straddle him, saying, “Some kinda intervention that was. I totally won.”

“Yeah, sure, and you call _me_ the freak. Chocolate sauce.”

Jared squeezes his fingers on Jensen’s hips, pulling him closer. “Gummi tummy.”

“What are you, _five_?” His eyes go all wide, real green, and Jared’ll never stop loving that.

“No, but you’re a fucking hypocrite,” Jared says, barely gets to laugh at his own—kinda lame but whatever—joke when Jensen kisses him on the mouth, hard, mumbles, “Shut up,” and continues to suck on Jared’s lip.

Jared grins against Jensen’s mouth, happy, awake, and _full_.

He wants to point out he’s not cleaning up the mess, but Jensen’s already fumbling for the jar again, and he’s not gonna open up his mouth after _that_.

_end_


End file.
